


Hold on to your heart

by blackkat



Series: A snake among the leaves [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mindless Fluff, Reunions, Time Travel, Vague allusions to past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3440567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Redemption is never easy to find, but now that Orochimaru has picked a different path, he won't walk it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold on to your heart

**Author's Note:**

> omfg it somehow grew 6k words while i wasnt looking help

Kakashi is not quite hovering, but he’s certainly close, ghosting along at Orochimaru’s elbow and never more than a single arm’s length away as they head towards Konoha. Obito is still asleep, still a dead weight in Orochimaru’s arms, but his breathing is steady and his pulse strong. Orochimaru hasn’t tried to rouse him, hasn’t wanted to risk something going wrong so far from his lab. For all his genius, Madara was no scientist. His understanding of Hashirama’s cells was piecemeal at best, and a full-body grafting is something even Orochimaru would hesitate to undertake.

But the boy is alive. But Madara is dead, and Zetsu along with him, and suddenly the future feels wide open and empty in the best of all possible ways. It’s enough to make Orochimaru pause on the crest of a small rise, looking out to where the rolling hills are swallowed by the forest outside Konoha, and simply breathe in the clean, fresh air for a moment.

He had never expected to have another chance, before. Had honestly never wanted one, or even _considered_ wanting such a thing. For all that his interests lie in the world of science, in asking questions and uncovering answers, Orochimaru has spent his entire life only looking ahead. Even after the death of his parents, he had never looked back, never thought _if I had done something differently, I could have saved them_. Instead, his thoughts had run to _will I meet them again? How long will it take?_

But Orochimaru has never been one to waste opportunities, or let them slip through his fingers. He is a man who lives primarily in the present, while Jiraiya focuses on the future and Tsunade dwells on the past. So different, all three of them. It is…astonishing that they could ever form a team, let alone one that was so strangely cohesive.

A glancing touch to his arm makes him look down. Kakashi meets his gaze, faintly apologetic, but doesn’t let go of Obito's wrist where he’s checking his pulse. Orochimaru flicks a glance at the sun, judging the time, and has to refrain from rolling his eyes. That’s the third time in the last hour, and were Orochimaru feeling even an ounce less at peace with the world, or even an ounce more aggravated, he’d call the boy out on it.

As it is, it’s been a long day. They're both weary, Orochimaru unused to the constraints of his unmodified body and Kakashi on the edge of chakra exhaustion, and Orochimaru can almost see the Hokage Mountain on the edge of the horizon. He lets it go.

“Peace, Hatake,” he says, his best attempt at being comforting. It’s a poor one, and he’s well aware of it. That was always Tsunade's area. Or Jiraiya's, in a pinch. “He will be all right.”

“He’s unconscious,” Kakashi points out, just the barest edge of bulldog stubbornness in his voice. There's far more held in reserve than just that bit, Orochimaru knows, but it’s buried beneath the boy’s aloofness. Some things, at least, never change.

“And he will likely remain that way for a while yet,” Orochimaru acknowledges, starting down the hill. His sandals raise small puffs of dust beneath the glare of a sun just reaching its zenith, and the air around them is warm and muggy. Orochimaru feels the warmth of it settle into his bones, and has to resist the urge to call a break and simply bask in it for a while. Sometimes, it feels as though he’ll never escape the chill that gripped him on that bloody battlefield, Kusanagi through his chest and only strength of will keeping him alive, and in the wake of that paranoia such warmth is greatly welcomed. “As I said, whatever was done to him was extensive. Such things require time to recover from.”

Kakashi doesn’t look impressed with this in the least. “I thought you also said he was _fine_.”

This time, the eye-roll escapes before Orochimaru can smother it. “And he will be. With time, and once I have a deeper understanding of what was done to him.” Seeing the boy tense, visible eye narrowing, he snorts and picks up his pace a little, making the boy, lacking the height of his older body, hurry to keep up. “Control yourself before I take offense, Hatake. I am well aware of your teacher’s opinion of me, and I would be even if I had not been witness to that touching scene before our departure, but I have no intention of harming this boy. However, as it stands, I know more about Hashirama’s cells than any other shinobi, alive or dead. If anyone will be able to help him, it will be me.”

Kakashi looks away, but there's a tightness around his eye that speaks of well-buried guilt, and Orochimaru lets himself slow again, taking that as the only apology he’ll get. The Copy-Nin’s suspicion is…not entirely unfounded, after all. Or, rather, it wasn’t once, though now is a completely different matter.

Orochimaru understands debts to be paid, if nothing else, and this is certainly one he owes. A gift, given unasked and unlooked for, but given all the same, and for all that he generally ignores the softer emotions unless it suits him, Orochimaru feels…gratitude, for this. For his second chance.

He does not hate how his life played out the first time, all but for the end, but he is not one to repeat a path when other options present themselves. That’s all this is.

(And if his heart turns over in his chest at the sight of Jiraiya standing before him, if he can't quite fight a smile upon waking to an effusive greeting and beaming grin, well.

That’s Orochimaru’s business, and no one else’s.)

The forest is cool after the unhindered warmth of the sun, and the road is shadowed in greens and browns. The trees lean heavily over the road, boughs entwining overhead like tangling fingers, with darts and drips of golden sun to spot the dirt track. Kakashi gravitates closer, gripping a kunai in one hand as he scans the undergrowth. It is tempting to point out that he’s wavering on his feet, hardly able to walk a straight line let alone guard them from whatever horrors ill luck might conjure, but Orochimaru holds his tongue again, shifting Obito slightly to get a better grip. The Uchiha is not exactly a waifish slip of a thing, after all, regardless of the thinness of his face at the moment. Too many missed meals, Orochimaru supposes, living with two manifestations of Madara’s will and a man who survived by leeching chakra.

“Will he need a medic-nin?” Kakashi asks, attention darting between stirring shadows. “I can go on ahead and call one.”

For a moment, Orochimaru debates asking him to fetch the Nohara girl, but dismisses the whim almost as soon as it occurs to him. He remembers the emotionality of reunions, and would rather eat poison than subject himself to such a thing in the relative haven of his labs. Informing Minato and Jiraiya will be bad enough. He’d rather limit such hive-inducing occurrences as much as possible.

“No,” he answers, when Kakashi glances back at him curiously in the lengthening silence. “Let me make sure the grafts are stable and that his body is in no danger of degrading first. Then, if it becomes necessary, I will call in a medic. However, I feel I am best to help him, given his condition.”

Thankfully, Kakashi accepts that with a quick nod, turning back to face front, and Orochimaru shifts Obito again, trying to give his arms some small respite. They’ve been walking since early morning, as the tunnel Orochimaru picked deposited them somewhere in the north of Fire Country, and for all his augmented strength it’s been a long trip carrying nearly a hundred pounds of deadweight.

“Do you want me to take him?” Kakashi asks, glancing back again. There are lines of worry etched into his face; they’ve been there almost since they started their return trip, but they're deeper now, harsher with the weariness revealed in every line of Kakashi's body. Privately, Orochimaru suspects that if he handed Obito over Kakashi would make it about ten steps before collapsing, not that he’ll say such a thing. He’s well acquainted with the Copy-Nin’s intractability, after all. Kakashi would likely take it as a challenge and faint from exhaustion in the process, and then Orochimaru would have to carry both boys back to the village. He is not amused by the thought.

From universally feared missing-nin to pack mule. Ah, but how the world turns.

“No,” he says, managing to keep the dust-dryness from his voice through great effort. “Thank you, Hatake, but I believe I can manage.”

Kakashi shoots him another look, this time purely skeptical, but lets it go. Instead he asks, in what he probably hopes is a nonchalant tone, “You're sure that sleeping so deeply is natural?”

Orochimaru wonders, with vague exasperation and a touch of disbelief, just how his life has managed to come to this.

 

 

Jiraiya has been worryingly silent since their arrival.

From most anyone else, Minato wouldn’t let it concern him. They're at war, and that tends to weigh on the mind, especially out on the frontlines. However, Jiraiya has always, _always_ been one to put on a jovial front, to laugh and joke with the troops. He’s not a god to them, for all his ability; he’s one of them, and at times like this that’s a thousand times more valuable.

But even though this is usually the time when he’d be cozying up to the campfire with the prettiest women or the best grub, Jiraiya is seated across the fire from Minato, his food all but untouched. All of his attention is fixed on the tiny box cradled between his big hands, and he’s been turning it over and over compulsively since the fighting stopped and Minato handed it to him. It’s not even that he looks unhappy—and maybe that’s part of the problem, because Jiraiya's face is absolutely unreadable. He hasn’t even bothered to pull on one of his usual masks.

Minato's not ashamed to admit he’s worried. Jiraiya, for all his strength both within and without, isn’t exactly complicated. Oh, he’s _deep_ , certainly, and there are depths Minato is aware he’ll never see, but for all of that, it’s easy to read him. There are only a few things that drive him, and Minato can name all of them.

All but this, it seems.

It’s something to do with Orochimaru—that much is clear without having to ask. But _everything_ seems to have something to do with Orochimaru lately, and Minato has been a shinobi long enough to know when something’s suspicious. From reporting Danzo's plans to his complete personality change to requesting Kakashi accompany him on a mission—something about the Sannin has changed, shifted, and had Hizashi not already discretely checked him for genjutsus or henges at Minato's request, Minato might think he’d been replaced or compromised.

Because he’s met Orochimaru before. He’s worked with him and fought with him and argued with him, and the Orochimaru from before was… _wrong._ Twisted and stiff, cold and aloof, holding himself at an almost painful distance. He’d looked at those around him like experiments waiting to be done, like lab specimens he simply hadn’t labeled yet. During any interactions at all with other shinobi, he’d taken dark, sadistic pleasure in their discomfort, added to it in any way he could just to see them flinch, and there's never been anything Minato has liked less than a bully.

But then, not even a month ago, the Hokage had approached Minato about Danzo and several illicit labs and training complexes ANBU had uncovered—Root facilities, and all of them unknown to the Hokage, even after Sarutobi had ordered Danzo to turn in copies of his records. The Sandaime said that _Orochimaru_ had been the one to reveal Danzo's less than successful experiments with the Shodaime’s cells, after the man had approached him with an offer to collaborate.

The Orochimaru Minato had met before that night would have accepted the assignment gleefully, immersed himself in the experiments without thought to what they cost in human lives.

This one, this strange, forever amused, peculiarly wistful, and oddly sad man who had greeted Minato in the woods, barefoot and blood-splattered but still calm and composed, is entirely different.

He had smiled.

Not a smirk, not a sneer, not a half-grimace just barely hiding his distaste, but a _smile_ , given to Jiraiya the minute the Toad Sage had skidded into the living room. It was small, but overwhelmingly fond and touched with the deepest regret, so deep Minato felt it down to his bones even though he was all the way across the room. Orochimaru had smiled and his eyes had softened, the lines of his face easing until he was no longer the cold, marble statue he so often resembled, but a man. A very lovely one, granted—because Orochimaru has always been odd in that way, too, never minding taking a kunoichi’s role on a mission, never overly concerned with the gender lines others watch so carefully—but still, just…a man. One who had missed an old teammate, an old friend, in the time they were apart, no matter how much he himself had to do with that separation.

At first, Minato had written it off as Orochimaru’s near death, or as showing emotion in lieu of excess loyalty after turning Danzo in. But then that new Orochimaru had _stayed_ , had _persisted._ Kushina is generally good at picking up on hidden motives and negative emotions, but even she seems warily accepting of the man.

Now, watching Jiraiya, he has to wonder if this really is a new Orochimaru, or just an old one Minato has never met, finally returned. Because surely, to inspire such loyalty in a man like Jiraiya, who knows evil and will fight against it to his dying breath, there must be something redeeming in Orochimaru’s makeup.

“It was our first serious argument,” Jiraiya says suddenly, and Minato twitches slightly in surprise. He tosses the box up into the air and catches it deftly, making the contents rattle. His expression is distant, but tender in a way Minato has never seen before. “Not kid stuff, or a difference of opinion, but—severe. Something that almost broke our friendship completely. Orochimaru was allowed to experiment on prisoners of war with new medical techniques, and…I hated what it made him into. _Hated_ it. Because he never cared about stuff like morals or decency or whatever unless one of us was yelling at him, and for something like that, we couldn’t. Because it was sanctioned by the village, and could possibly save lives, and it was _necessary_.”

He pauses, then chuckles and shakes his head. “Really, I was such a stupid kid back then. I told Orochimaru he should stop experimenting on humans for kicks and work on something that would actually help. Like making better soldier pills or something.”

Minato studies his sensei’s face, because this sounds like the kind of story that will end in tragedy, and Jiraiya's expression doesn’t match that. He almost looks…wondering. “Sensei?” he asks carefully.

Jiraiya laughs. It rumbles up from within him, the truest, most genuine sound Minato has heard in a while, and then spills over in a flood of warmth and happiness. He depresses some hidden latch concealed beneath the box’s ornate carvings, then flips back the lid and shows Minato the contents. Row upon row of neat little pills, but instead of the usual deep brown, these are an opalescent white, and slightly smaller than the average soldier pills. Minato glances at them, then back up at Jiraiya, almost afraid to wonder.

But Jiraiya's smile is easy, fond. He rubs his thumb over the edge of the box, then flips it closed again. “A new kind of soldier pill,” he says softly. “It’s a sign, Minato. A message. Orochimaru never says things straight-out if he can come at them backwards and sidelong. This is his way of telling me he’s changing track. I…didn’t even think he remembered.”

If there's one thing Jiraiya is chronically stupid about, it’s judging his own sense of worth. Minato gives in with a quiet chuckle, surrendering to what’s clearly already begun to happen. And, the same way he once took Jiraiya's word when his sensei warned him about Orochimaru, he accepts that now Orochimaru has had a change of heart. After all, who would know better than Jiraiya himself?

“If you thought it was going to break your friendship,” he says carefully, “then maybe Orochimaru felt the same way. And I've seen you with a lot of people, sensei, but I've only ever seen Orochimaru around you, Danzo, and Sarutobi-sama. Whatever it meant to you, it had to mean just as much to him, don’t you think?”

With a chuckle, Jiraiya slides around the fire until he’s close enough to ruffle Minato's hair. “Look at you,” he says with amusement. “Already practicing your diplomacy skills for when you're Hokage? Don’t get uppity with me, kid.”

Minato bats his hand away and then, on a whim, says, “What's he like? Your Orochimaru, I mean.”

Jiraiya pauses, almost as though he’s been caught off guard, and blinks. He stares at Minato for a moment, then looks blankly down at the box. “My Orochimaru,” he echoes, and sighs softly. His smile, when it comes again, is wry. “Not mine, kid. Never mine. He made that clear when we were still just brats.”

There's a story in there somewhere, in the crooked, rueful curve of Jiraiya's lips, and Minato feels a swell of protective, offended indignation fill him, because clearly Orochimaru did something, said something. But Jiraiya will certainly never tell him just what happened, and Minato carefully files it away for future contemplation (or action).

“But…” Jiraiya's voice, startlingly light and amused, draws his attention back to the conversation, to find his teacher grinning to himself. “Gods, Minato, he was amazing, and I hated him for it. He hated me right back, to be fair, and I think Sarutobi-sensei spent most of the time he was training us thinking of places to hide our bodies.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Did you know the bastard has a sense of humor? We’d get into pranking wars and the rest of the village would _cower_. And he can lie through his teeth to get out of trouble afterward, without ever batting an eyelash.”

Minato attempts to fit _unrepentant prankster_ into his mental image of Orochimaru, right alongside _amoral scientist killer weapon of mass destruction_ , and has to stop before he gives himself a migraine.

Apparently reading that on his face, Jiraiya laughs outright and flips the box of soldier pills up into the air again, catching it loosely. “Yeah, I know. Hard to imagine now, right? But before Orochimaru lost his parents, he was a completely different kid. Hell, before the war he was completely different.” He grimaces, then rubs a hand over his hair with a soft sigh that fades to another small, wistful smile. “Right now, he’s closer to how he used to be. Not entirely, but…it’s like he’s found something to care about again, or a _reason_ to care. No matter what anyone says about him, Minato, he’s always been a loyal bastard. If you ever need someone at your back, he’s the best. But for years now, it’s been like he’s slipping away, losing all of that. And now…now it’s back.”

Another smile, and Minato thinks about those words, thinks about _he’s found something to care about again, or a reason to care_ , and remembers Orochimaru’s expression as they landed in Jiraiya's apartment. Thinks about _not mine, kid. Never mine_ , and…wonders. Because one of these things is not like the rest, and Orochimaru has changed. He’s not entirely like he used to be, but he’s not so dissimilar, either, and maybe, maybe—

Maybe Jiraiya isn’t seeing the full picture here, because if he has one great flaw, it’s his inability to see himself as others do, to see how great and how much of a hero he really is.

Minato wonders, a little bemusedly, whether Orochimaru can see it even when Jiraiya can't.

Before he can question his teacher further, though, there's a rush of footsteps, and one of the perimeter guards appears out of the near-darkness, a pair of figures on his heels. “Sir!” he says, saluting sharply, then steps aside to let his companions past and all but sprints back towards his post. Minato blinks, because that’s a lot more formality than he usually asks of his men, especially when the enemy has been confirmed nearly three days’ travel away and they're relatively safe. Then he realizes who the visitors are, and has to fight not to grimace in understanding.

“Hiashi, Hizashi,” he greets, rising to his feet with his best smile. “I thought the Hokage was trying to keep you in Konoha.” Their father is sick, he knows—and more than just being an infirm relative, he’s the Hyuuga Clan Head, and Hiashi is his heir. Sarutobi has to play politics, even in the middle of a war, and the Hyuuga are still second only to the Uchiha when it comes to their clout.

The twins exchange looks, readable only to each other, and there's a whole conversation held without a single word being spoken. It’s a little silly how envious Minato is of that—he’s an only child, but he’s always wished he had a brother. Or a sister, for that matter.

It’s Hiashi who eventually steps forward, and there's no levity in his expression. Or, rather, there's even less than normal. “Minato, Jiraiya-sama, the Hokage has requested your return to the village. We’re to take command here.”

Minato's heart trips over itself, and he nearly stumbles. Being called back to Konoha isn’t a little thing; it means something’s gone wrong enough that it outweighs the presence of the Yellow Flash and one of the Sannin on the battlefield, and that’s a truly unsettling thought. Life or death, usually, and the first thought on Minato's mind is _Kushina_. And then he remembers Kakashi, out on a highly classified mission with only Orochimaru for backup, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Ni-sama.” Hizashi sounds faintly exasperated as he steps up beside his brother, who gives him a puzzled look. The younger twin raises a brow right back, then says, “Orochimaru-sama returned from his mission right before Sarutobi-sama sent us. Hatake was with him and seemingly unharmed, but I heard that the Sannin has retired to his personal lab with a patient. Nothing more than that, I'm afraid.”

Minato is already moving, grabbing his pack and making sure he has all of his equipment, but behind him he can hear Hiashi huff, “Hizashi! You can't pass on _gossip_ like it’s _news_!” He sounds somewhere between disgruntled and affronted.

“It’s relevant!” Hizashi insists. “You were just needlessly worrying them by not giving a full picture.”

“It’s the picture that the _Hokage wanted me to give_. If there was other information, he would have instructed me to provide that!”

“Maybe he assumed you would make a judgment call like that on your own.”

“You have absolutely no evidence to support—”

“Neither do _you_ —”

“Oh boy,” Jiraiya mutters, shouldering his own pack with a badly concealed grin. “The wonder twins are at it again.”

It takes a great amount of self-restraint for Minato not to roll his eyes. He’s fond of both Hiashi and Hizashi, especially when they’re together—they're moderating influences on each other, and pretty much look at every issue from opposite ends of the spectrum—and knows they're very much competent shinobi, but he does feel a bit of pity for all the troops who will have to be in close proximity to their bickering without any means of escape, or the rank to make them shut up.

“You know the situation?” he interrupts as politely as he can, and the Hyuuga twins turn to look at him without even missing a beat.

“Of course,” they answer as one, which is honestly rather eerie. Another shared glance, and Hiashi adds, “Hokage-sama fully briefed us on the situation, and we have assured him that we are completely focused. Clan matters will not distract us.”

Hizashi nods his agreement, features sternly set, and Minato wonders just how much of their lack of distraction comes from relief at being away from their Clan and the Elders’ bickering and political maneuvering. It probably helps that, while they certainly know their familial duty, neither Hizashi nor Hiashi is all that devoted to their father. They're twins, they're close, and the divide between the Branch House and Main House weighs on them at times.

It worries Minato a little, to think of what will happen to them when they're inevitably separated as Clan Head and Branch House member.

“Safe travels,” the twins say as one, then glance at each other once more before turning away, heading for the command tent. Minato watches them go for another second, then reminds himself that they're more than capable and Sarutobi trusted them with this posting, and forces himself to step up to Jiraiya's side.

Because Jiraiya knows him better than anyone else alive, he looks at Minato for only a moment before sighing resignedly and holding out one arm. “If you drop me, kid, I’ll haunt you _for eternity_.”

Minato gives him his best wounded expression, even as he readies his Hiraishin and tries to triangulate their path given the markers he left along the road. “Sensei!” he protests. “I wouldn’t!”

Jiraiya's expression is far from impressed. “Save it for someone who wasn’t there when you were learning this technique, pretty boy. I remember pulling you out of several hundred trees before you could jump so much as ten yards.”

That, unfortunately, is all too true. Minato smiles sheepishly as he takes Jiraiya's arm and hurtles them back towards Konoha in a flash of yellow light.

 

 

_The Sannin has retired to his personal lab with a patient._

Honestly, it could mean any number of things. Orochimaru’s personal labs are the stuff of urban legend and hearsay, with little fact to go on. Even Jiraiya himself has never been there, because Orochimaru’s house is his haven, and no matter the distance between them, Jiraiya respects his teammate enough not to invade his territory uninvited.

Danzo did, and the mere thought of it still makes Jiraiya's blood alternately run cold and burn with rage.

However, Minato doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to be turned away by anyone less than the Hokage himself, and Jiraiya has butted heads with his mule-brained, impossibly obstinate student enough times to know when to pick his battles. This isn’t one that he’s in any position to win, so he keeps in step with Minato as they hurry through the village. It’s late at night, and with so many shinobi mobilized for the war there's only a skeleton crew of guards and bureaucrats and barely-walking wounded left in Konoha. Jiraiya waves to the few he knows, but doesn’t stop to chat.

Orochimaru has someone in his personal labs, after going on a mission even though he’s still supposed to be on leave recovering from a punctured lung, with Hatake Kakashi as his requested backup. Hatake Kakashi who recently received a transplanted Sharingan that he can use as if it’s his own.

One of Jiraiya's hands fists around the little box in his pocket, hard enough that the corner must be leaving a deep imprint in his skin.

He breathes out.

No. No, he’s not going to doubt. Not anymore. This is enough, and this is all he needs. Orochimaru has remembered, and changed, and _looked_ at him. There's no reason to doubt, anymore.

No matter how it looks, Jiraiya has faith that there's some other explanation than the obvious.

The tiny house that appears around the bend of the path almost takes him by surprise; it’s been years since he was actually here, after all. Still, it hasn’t been enough time to forget just how many traps both Orochimaru and the preceding generations placed in the surrounding woods and road, and he reaches out to grab Minato's arm.

“Wait,” he warns, and when Minato's expression takes on that particular slant of dogged pigheadedness that means arguing with him is going to give Jiraiya the mother of all headaches, Jiraiya hold up a hand to cut off his protests. “Not like that. Orochimaru met you out here last time, didn’t he? Over the property line, I'm guessing. These are his clan lands. The entire place is one big booby trap waiting to go off.”

Were Minato an ounce less fundamentally nice, he’d snarl. As it is, frustration twists at his features, and he reaches down to finger one of his Hiraishin kunai contemplatively.

“No,” Jiraiya says firmly. “Kid, pull that pretty blond head out of those clouds of worry you're brewing for a second and _think._ Orochimaru’s grandmother was good friends with the Nidaime. All of your tricks have already been accounted for. Just follow me, okay?”

“This is ridiculous,” Minato grumbles, though he keeps in careful step with Jiraiya as they head for the front door. “What about visitors?”

Jiraiya doesn’t know whether to snort or grimace at the suggestion. “Orochimaru isn’t exactly the most popular person in the village, Minato. Me, Sarutobi, and Tsunade were the only ones who ever came out here, and after a point even we weren’t welcome.”

He still remembers it, vividly, with the curse of a good memory. Orochimaru, battered and still bleeding, flinching away from touch even more than usual, long hair hacked off in chunks and a wild, animalistic light in his eyes. He’d let them help him, half-carry him right up to the edge of his clan’s land and then he’d shaken them off and staggered on alone, disappearing into the dark, lonely house and locking them outside.

At fifteen, Jiraiya had been stupid. He’d listened when Sarutobi told them to give Orochimaru time, had listened and tiptoed around his teammate and been unable to think anything beyond _my fault my fault should have noticed should have found him faster rescued him sooner_. He’d been so caught up in guilt and the need to give Orochimaru space and time that he hadn’t even realized that Orochimaru _did_ need them, but he wasn’t sure how to ask.

And by the time he did notice, it had been too late.

But the once-familiar path through the traps comes back with startling ease, a relief and a blessing in more ways than one. _Another sign_ , Jiraiya thinks, touching the box of soldier pills again, and he can't fight a faint smile no matter the situation.

One more step, another fairly nasty paralysis seal circumvented, and Jiraiya steps up on the front porch. He hesitates, ignoring the way Minato is all but looming behind him, and then takes a breath and reaches out, gently rapping his knuckles against the door. Three seconds, four, five, and Minato starts shifting impatiently, but before Jiraiya can even roll his eyes at his student there's a soft pad of footsteps—not Orochimaru, who is eerily soundless even in the worst conditions—and the soft click of a bolt being drawn. The door creaks open just a crack, and a pair of wide, light brown eyes stare up at him accusingly from underneath a fringe of violet hair.

“Yeah?” the twelve-year-old demands in a voice just above a whisper, though she still manages to sound entirely unimpressed. “What do you want?”

“Anko-chan!” Jiraiya says, putting as much cheer into his voice as he’s able. “You're looking adorable as always—ouch!”

The little brat extracts the heel of one of her knee-high boots from the arch of his foot, where she was apparently trying to embed it, and scowls ferociously at him. “ _Shh_!” she hisses with all the venom of her favorite summons. “Sensei is _asleep_!”

Jiraiya blinks. Orochimaru, sleeping? As a rule, Orochimaru doesn’t sleep unless he’s entirely exhausted himself, is healing from injuries that would be deadly on anyone else, or has been knocked out. Or, on very rare occasions, when he’s found a particularly warm and inviting puddle of sunlight. Tsunade always despaired of him because of it.

With a frown, Jiraiya crouches down to get eye-level with Orochimaru’s apprentice, and asks seriously, in a carefully modulated voice, “How is he?”

Anko studies him for a long, suspicious moment before apparently judging him worthy of an answer. “Tired. Sensei has been working in his lab the last two days straight, and he wouldn’t stop until he almost collapsed. The Hokage finally made him come up here to get some rest.” She steps back, swinging the door open for them, and Jiraiya takes three steps over the threshold and then feels his heart turn over in his chest.

Much like the night when he sought sanctuary at Jiraiya's apartment, Orochimaru is asleep, curled snake-like in what Jiraiya knows is his favorite chair. He’s not a small man by any means, but even so, he’s somehow managed to fold and twist himself until his legs are tucked up under him, his head pillowed on his folded arms atop the padded arm of the chair, and his black hair falls over and around him like rivers of spilled ink. There are lines in his pale face that speak of too much concentration and too little sleep, and in that moment he’s so very much like the boy who was once Jiraiya's best friend that he physically can't stop his feet as they carry him across the room.

Without a thought to the other two still watching, Jiraiya goes to his knees in front of the chair, breath catching in his throat as he reaches out and smooths a few wayward strands of impossibly smooth, soft hair away from Orochimaru’s cheek. In this light, Orochimaru’s clan markings are more indigo than violet, and his lashes cast dark crescents of shadow against the paleness of his cheek. He’s so absolutely stunning that it almost hurts to look at him, a physical ache deep down in Jiraiya's chest, and even knowing all his flaws, all his imperfections can't take away from that. If anything, it makes it even sweeter, that Orochimaru can still look like this, can exist in such a moment of peace and beauty, and Jiraiya is finding it all but impossible to breathe.

“Hey,” he whispers, and thinks of it again, being fifteen and sitting around a shivering campfire somewhere near the Wind Country border, the blood of several dozen enemy shinobi drying on his clothes, with a teammate he’d feared lost forever finally coming awake before him. He’d leaned over Orochimaru as his eyes fluttered open, and thought that he’d never seen a more beautiful sight than a fierce golden gaze and bone-deep relief.

(He’d kissed Orochimaru four days later, half a mile from Konoha's walls. Orochimaru had flinched away and hissed, spat curses at him and all but fled, and Jiraiya had felt as though his world had entirely ended. He’d never thought of what he was breaking, or what had already been broken. Just the rejection, and the hurt it brought.

Yeah, fifteen was a pretty stupid age all around.)

But this time, when black lashes sweep up and golden eyes open, there's no deeply buried terror of touch in them. There's just a moment of bewilderment, and then recognition. Relief follows shortly, along with something very like fondness and then a dart of what might even be pleasure, though that last is probably Jiraiya fooling himself. He’s good at that kind of thing.

“Jiraiya,” Orochimaru says on a sleepy breath, and there's a faint curve to his lips that Jiraiya is almost terrified to read into.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he answers, but his grin is softer than normal, and he can't quite give his words the edge of teasing they’d usually have.

There's a momentary pause, where Jiraiya can all but see Orochimaru’s brain firing up one neuron at a time, and the Snake Sannin shifts and unfolds himself from his tight curl, pushing upright and raking one hand through his hair. It spills around him, a careless cascade that slides over his shoulders and almost into his lap before he brushes it impatiently away. “Is it morning already?” he asks around the smothered beginnings of a yawn.

“…Er.” Stymied, Jiraiya glances around for a clock. “Technically, I think? It’s after midnight, I'm pretty sure.”

“It’s just past three in the morning,” Minato puts in, still looming by the door with his arms folded over his chest. The menace of his stance is somewhat undercut by the fact that Anko is planted firmly in front of him, her glare all but daring him to advance even one step further, and Minato is eying her with no little trepidation.

One corner of Orochimaru’s mouth curls up, the other man clearly seeing the humor in the standoff, before he nudges Jiraiya slightly to the side and rises to his feet. “Namikaze,” he says with the perfect politeness that means he’s secretly mocking someone. Jiraiya can't quite bring himself to call him out on it. “Good, the Hokage did send for you. I have something I believe you need to see.”

With a derisive sniff, Anko steps aside, and Minato wastes no time crossing the room. “Is it Kakashi? Is there something wrong with his Sharingan? Hizashi said—”

Orochimaru waves for them to follow, already pulling open a discreet door in the far wall to reveal a flight of stairs leading down. “Kakashi is fine. This is…something else,” he says over his shoulder, but nothing more, and Minato pulls a face at his back before starting down the stairs after him. Jiraiya rolls his eyes at both of them—because clearly, Orochimaru is being evasive because it messes with Minato, and if Minato didn’t react to it Orochimaru would stop—but follows his student.

“Sensei, do you want some tea?” Anko calls from where she’s still hovering at the top.

To Jiraiya's faint surprise, Orochimaru actually pauses and half-turns to cast his apprentice a slight smile, verging on a smirk. “Thank you, Anko. As long as you can manage to leave my kitchen intact, tea would be lovely.”

Anko flushes crimson and stutters out an insult as to Orochimaru’s parentage, hisses, “That was _one time,_ sensei!” and then spins on her heel and stalks away. Even the tips of her ears are red, Jiraiya notes with amusement.

Orochimaru turns back towards the spill of light at the bottom of the stairs, though he’s still smirking, and continues down. “Remember to control yourself, Namikaze. If you cause a needless fuss, I have no qualms about throwing out,” he says almost dispassionately, then strides into the lab without so much as a glance back.

So it’s going to be something upsetting, then. Jiraiya takes a breath and braces himself, following right on Minato's heels as they emerge into a sterile white room, the smell of disinfectant, and the glare of bright lights.

It takes a moment for Jiraiya's eyes to adjust after the darkness of the rest of the house, but when things come back into focus, the first thing he notices is a hospital bed in the middle of the room. There's a chair beside it, and Kakashi is slumped in it, looking tired but alert. His eye is on Orochimaru, who’s checking a series of fairly mystifying readouts off to the side.

“Didn’t I say I could watch him perfectly well for an hour while you collapsed from exhaustion?” The kid sounds cross and vaguely offended, though he’s attempted to bury the emotions under a tone of bored indifference. It will work better for him when he’s older and less of a brat, Jiraiya suspects.

Orochimaru doesn’t deign to answer, though Jiraiya gets the distinct feeling he’s rolling his eyes—and after all the times Orochimaru’s done that to _him_ , he’s in a position to know.

“Kakashi,” Minato says, and there's a world’s worth of relief in his tone as he hurries across the room. “Are you okay? The mission—”

And then he stops dead, staring at the still, sleeping figure on the bed, nearly as pale as the sheets beneath him. Jiraiya can't even tell if Minato is still breathing, he’s so completely frozen, and with a frown he casts a glance at the patient.

It only takes a second to recognize him, but that’s more than enough to throw Jiraiya's entire world off its axis once again.

The dead don’t come back. It’s a fact of life in the ninja world; no matter a shinobi’s strength, once he’s dead, that’s the end of it. There are _stories_ , of course, but they rarely have even a grain of truth to them in the end. Miraculous survivals are more common, but only slightly, and even then, they usually work themselves out like tragedies in the end. Jiraiya knows for a fact that Minato's third student was caught in a cave in helped along by a compacting Doton jutsu. That’s more than enough to kill even the hardiest shinobi, let alone a thirteen-year-old kid.

But that is undeniably, unarguably Uchiha Obito lying there, hooked up to several machines and breathing evenly, the right side of his face horribly scarred.

Kakashi glances at Orochimaru, then at his teacher, and gets to his feet. He takes Minato's arm, tugs him gently over to the chair, and pushes him down. Minato goes without protest, face absolutely blank, but when he reaches out to touch Obito's arm his hand is shaking.

“Obito,” he whispers, and Jiraiya knows better than anyone just how the loss of a child under his care effected Minato, but to see it, to hear it so clearly is something else entirely. “He’s—?”

“Alive,” Orochimaru finishes readily, having moved on to replacing the IV bag with practiced hands. “And doing quite well. He should wake up before noon at the latest. Whatever Madara did to him, I've been able to reverse the…more unsavory bits and strengthen the parts that are holding him together.”

That gets him both Minato and Jiraiya's attention in an instant, their heads snapping up from Obito to stare at the brunet, who doesn’t look back.

“ _Madara_?” Jiraiya is the first to find his voice. “What the hell, teme? You were on leave for a _punctured lung_ and _complications_ , and Madara was one of the strongest Uchiha of all time! And he apparently _escaped death_! How the hell could you even _think_ of facing him alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. Hatake was quite useful.” Orochimaru casts him a narrow-eyed glance, just shy of a sneer. “And I was following rumors and conjecture; I would hardly have whisked away the most important front-line fighters for something like that.”

Jiraiya has never needed other people to draw all the connections for him. He crosses his arms over his chest and meets his teammate’s eyes with a hard look. Rumor and conjecture can only mean one thing, coming here and now. “Danzo,” he says, and has the satisfaction of seeing surprise flicker through Orochimaru’s golden gaze. “Danzo was conspiring with _Madara_? And he _didn’t_ kill you for catching wind of it?”

It’s a cold thought, icy down his spine. Orochimaru could have been _killed_ , just for overhearing something he wasn’t supposed to, and Jiraiya very likely never would have found out the real reason behind it. They're shinobi, and the risk of sudden, inexplicable death is part of the job, but it’s just…

Wrong. The thought of Orochimaru anywhere and any way but alive and healthy in Konoha is just _wrong_.

Orochimaru doesn’t look away, doesn’t waver, though a flash of sly amusement passes over his features. “I'm sure he would have, had he known,” he says wryly. “But yes, Danzo and Madara met at least once that I know of. I…overheard their discussion of how best to break an Uchiha and use him, and realized that they had a hostage.” His eyes narrow faintly, and one pale hand curls into a tight, angry fist. “Danzo wanted me to work on uncovering the secrets of Hashirama’s cells so that Madara could improve whatever he’d done to the boy. They were going to use _my_ research against Konoha. I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

That’s it, Jiraiya realizes with a burst of understanding like a solar flare. That was the tipping point, the moment in Orochimaru’s downward spiral when he encountered a line he would not cross. The use of his research on another Konoha shinobi, to be ultimately turned against Konoha, was too much for him to bear, and he’d retreated, stepped onto a new path and forged his way ahead.

Uchiha Obito is what brought Orochimaru back to them.

As Jiraiya told Minato only a few hours ago, Orochimaru is a sly, taciturn bastard who’s never been overly fond of using his words. But by the light in those nearly-eerie eyes, Jiraiya is absolutely certain that Orochimaru both knows and acknowledges Obito's part in turning him away from his former path. And though he might not say it, Orochimaru is smart enough to recognize that where he was going could have only ended in disaster. He’s also honorable enough in his own, slightly strange way that he won't let such a thing pass. Orochimaru considers himself in Obito's debt, if Jiraiya knows him at all, and that means that for Obito, there will be no place safer and no one more loyal until Orochimaru considers that debt repaid.

But—

“You went after _Madara_ ,” he repeats, a tight sort of horrified fury clawing at his gut.

Orochimaru turns away with a swirl of grey robes and long black hair, crossing to check on a machine that’s started flashing. But…that’s awkwardness, in Orochimaru. Avoidance. He’s never been good with blatant sentiment. “I did,” he agrees. “And he was old, Jiraiya. Old and decrepit and tethered to a chakra source in order to stay alive. For all his power, even Madara could not entirely halt the advance of age. Were he in his prime, I would have been more cautious, but he wasn’t.”

 _Would have been more cautious_ , rather than _wouldn’t have gone_. People like to look at the Sannin and say that Jiraiya is the headstrong, reckless one, and sure, he’s more _blatant_ about it, but Tsunade and Orochimaru have never exactly been reasonable about such things either. They were always well-matched, as a team.

Jiraiya can't fight the chuckle that rises in his throat, but he presses a hand over his eyes so he won't have to look at his best friend and think of him standing against Madara, struggling and falling and _dying_ —

Slim, warm fingers tug his hand away, and Jiraiya looks at his teammate a little helplessly, not sure what to do or how to feel. Because for all that Minato was wrong, he was right, too. The old Orochimaru, _his_ Orochimaru, is back, and Jiraiya has Madara and Danzo to thank for it. The future had seemed dark, threatening, and now it’s open and full of light.

Orochimaru sighs at him, that exasperated, overdramatic sound Jiraiya heard from him so many times as a kid, and it makes him grin on reflex, because it always has.

“Tell me, Jiraiya,” he says, and his eyes don’t waver. “If I left without the intention to ever return, would you chase me?”

“Until the day I died,” Jiraiya answers automatically, and isn’t surprised at all to realize that he means it with every inch of his soul. “And even after I was dead, I’d hang around on the other side and wait for you.”

Something very like sadness, or maybe regret, slides across Orochimaru’s eyes and is buried. He releases Jiraiya's wrist and steps back. “Then trust that I wouldn’t want you to waste your life following a ghost,” he says, as though that’s the end of matters. “I would not steal away one of Konoha’s best for something so pointless.”

As promises not to die go, it’s a lousy one, but—

But it’s a promise. Orochimaru keeps his promises. And for the first time in years, he’s looking _at_ Jiraiya, rather than away, and…

And Jiraiya is still an idiot, even though fifteen is far behind him. He lets out a breath, steps forward, and wraps an arm around Orochimaru’s waist. Orochimaru stiffens, clearly startled, because even after so many years existing in the same space Orochimaru has never been able to predict and direct his movements, not the way he can with other people. And that’s good, that’s amazing, because when Jiraiya pulls him in, presses them together, Orochimaru is too surprised to protest.

When Jiraiya kisses him, he doesn’t protest at all.

Jiraiya dreamed about this, as a kid. He’s always looked at women, yes, but some things go beyond that, and Orochimaru crosses all boundaries and defies them without care. It was always him or Tsunade, for Jiraiya, and for all of that Tsunade has always been closer to sister than lover, especially after Dan. But Orochimaru is the connection he needs, a grounding force, a beacon to hold to when Jiraiya's restless feet take him wandering.

Right now, despite all evidence to the contrary, it feels sort of like Orochimaru too has been waiting a long time.

Hands curl into his hair, tugging gently, and pale lips part beneath his. Jiraiya takes the invitation eagerly, cupping Orochimaru’s angular face between his palms and tilting his head to fit their mouths together more easily. It’s sweetness and heat to set Jiraiya's head spinning, an undefinable taste on his tongue, the impossible warmth of breath on his cheek as they pull apart for air. Orochimaru’s eyes are heavy-lidded, all but burning with intensity, and he isn’t moving his grip on Jiraiya's hair. He isn’t moving at all, for that matter, and others might take it as a bad sign, but Jiraiya knows that since he’s not bleeding and disemboweled on the ground, Orochimaru is just as enthusiastic about this as he is.

But once isn’t enough. Jiraiya has wanted this for _years_ , more than two decades. _Nothing_ will ever be enough now. He smiles at his teammate and leans in again, tugging Orochimaru up and flush against his body. No curves, no breasts or wide hips or anything like that, but he doesn’t _care_ , will never care if he can just _keep this_.

He leans in, and this time Orochimaru leans up to meet him, kisses him hard and swift and nearly desperate, an edge of teeth hiding behind the softness of his tongue. Heat curls down Jiraiya's spine, and he wraps raven hair around his fingers, delighting in the slick-soft warmth of it. Orochimaru makes a sound, somewhere between interested and annoyed, and curls a hand around the back of Jiraiya's neck to pull him down further. Another break, barely long enough to count before they come together again, and Jiraiya can't quite keep from grinning even as they kiss, can't stop the laugh bubbling up in his chest as he slings his arm around a narrow waist and holds Orochimaru to him, shifts his head to press a kiss to that sharply-angled jaw. Long, clever fingers rub over his scalp, a careful and almost tentative touch, and Jiraiya sighs out in utter contentment, then presses his lips against Orochimaru’s throat to feel the pulse fluttering there. Orochimaru chuckles softly, and the cautious touch becomes a caress, sliding from the nape of Jiraiya's neck down to sweep over his shoulders.

Somewhere behind them, Minato whimpers.

Jiraiya very firmly ignores him, even though he makes a mental note to talk to Kushina about just what she and Minato apparently _haven’t_ been getting up to, to earn a reaction like that. It was—

Well. Maybe not _just_ a kiss, given the veritable lifetime of feelings behind it, but not that racy, honestly. Hands above the belt and everything.

When Jiraiya raises his head, Orochimaru is watching him, snake-smug and more gorgeous than anything he’s seen in a very long time, freshly kissed and on the verge of languid. He’s one of the deadliest creatures in Konoha, without morals or mercy for any but those closest to him, more blood on his hands than any three regular shinobi, and Jiraiya loves him because of it, in spite of it, despite it. Loves him for long, hot days training, team lunches with a bento between them, endless nights on missions seated beside each other in the dark. Loves him for the familiarity of him, the newness in his every motion. For the shade of his eyes and the shape of his face and the way he moves, boneless and impossibly fluid. For all the little things, and all the big ones, and the middle where they meet.

Loves him for who he is, who he was, and who he could be, for the way he’s watching Jiraiya now, smug and warm and fond and exasperated and a thousand other emotions that only Jiraiya has ever inspired in him, and that’s…

Perfect. Not either of them separately, definitely, because they're both broken and pieced back together and fractured in all the wrong ways, but—

But together, they're perfect, and that gives Jiraiya all the courage he needs to lean in and breathe, “I’d follow you. I would. But—stay?”

Orochimaru turns his head, pressing their temples together, his breath sliding across Jiraiya's cheek like the ghost of a kiss, and murmurs in return, “Yes.”

And for that, because of that, because that’s all he’s ever wanted to hear from this infuriating, impossible man, Jiraiya kisses him again.

 

 

Kakashi ignores the spectacle behind him. It’s not important, he doesn’t care, not when Orochimaru said that Obito will be waking before noon, not when there's an actual _time_ when Kakashi will get his teammate back.

His chest feels tight, but not in a bad way. Not like guilt, or grief, or anything he’s been feeling for the past months. Instead, it’s a breathless sort of anticipation, a ferocious sort of protectiveness and equally fierce uncertainty, because when Obito died Kakashi was still a bastard. He hadn’t been able to tell Obito just how he had changed, just what it meant that he came back for his teammates rather than going through with the mission. Because he’s different now, even more so because of Obito's sacrifice, but he’s terrified that it’s too late, that he hasn’t changed _enough_.

What if Obito hates him, when he wakes up? What if he blames Kakashi? It would be right, because this is Kakashi's fault and no one else’s, but—

But it scares him, the thought of seeing hatred on that pale, scarred face. Terrifies him more than anything else ever has except for watching Obito die.

Minato makes a faint sound of distress and covers his eyes. Kakashi rolls his and—

A twitch. Just faint, so small, but Kakashi sees it, sees the bony fingers curl into the sheets just the tiniest bit, and his breath catches in his throat. He leans forward, desperate for some further sign of life, even the smallest hint that Obito is waking.

A single dark eyes slides open, dazed and vague, but it catches on Kakashi and holds. Kakashi can't seem to draw breath, can't make his lungs work under the weight of his teammate’s gaze, but Obito smiles. He looks at Kakashi and smiles, and raises one hand to poke at the slanted hitai-ate covering his Sharingan eye.

“Hey,” he mumbles around a yawn. “Why are you hiding it, Bakashi? Ashamed that my eye’s too awesome for you?”

Kakashi chokes. His fists clench on the sheets and his shoulders bow, tense and tight, because _yes_. Yes, he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Obito's eye or Obito saving his life or the complete lack of recriminations in that warm black eye. Doesn’t deserve the friendship that Obito has always sought, only to be turned away with harsh words and mocking taunts that make him hiss and spit in return. His eye— _Obito's_ eye—burns wet-hot-dry with tears and Kakashi reaches up, wrenches the hitai-ate off and drops it carelessly, regardless of the drag of draining chakra and the tears he can feel on his cheek. He reaches up to catch Obito's wrist, grips it hard even though he’s horrified at the thought of so much as bruising him, and tries to find the words.

They don’t come. They can't, because Kakashi is a screw-up and a terrible friend and so broken he can't do _anything_ right, and—

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Obito. This is my fault, I'm the reason you got hurt, it’s my fault, I'm sorry. You don’t have to forgive me—”

“What?” Obito sounds mystified. He gets an arm under himself and pushes up on his elbow, frowning at Kakashi. “Bakashi, what the hell are you saying? I was the one that stood there like an idiot while the rocks were falling—”

“Because you were trying to rescue _me—_ ”

“Well, yeah.” Obito reaches out and punches him lightly in the shoulder, and he’s smiling. He’s _smiling_ at Kakashi, even though Kakashi is the reason half of his body had to be replaced. “Isn’t that kind of what teammates do?”

“Friends,” Kakashi corrects, before he can stop himself, and winces as surprise flows over Obito's features. He clears his throat awkwardly, then quickly tacks on, “If you…think we could be?”

Obito's grin is brighter than the sun could ever be. He reaches out, and Kakashi doesn’t need to read his mind to know what he wants. He offers his hand, index and middle finger outstretched together, and Obito does the same. Curved together like a handshake, a seal to end a spar and bury the past, and Kakashi has never, ever wanted anything more than this, a friend and a teammate returned, a smile for him that holds no blame.

Nothing but an offer of friendship, and the path to a new, brighter future.  


End file.
